


The Sharpest Blade

by myystic (neoinean)



Category: The Silmarillion - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elves, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-22
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:50:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neoinean/pseuds/myystic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can't even hold a candle to unrequited love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sharpest Blade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lanyon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/gifts).



_Doriath  
1495, First Age_

A journey from Tol Galen to Menegroth can be completed in three days’ time, if the weather stays fair and the travelers go unmolested by the Enemy, yet the Lord Celeborn has stretched this particular trip out into five, much to the displeasure of his entourage. It’s not that he wishes to postpone his homecoming -- indeed, far from it, no matter that he loves the family of Lúthien as he would his very own, or how much he regrets the vanishing rareness of his visits to them; for his own kin still yet reside within the halls of their King, and a fortnight is more than time enough spent away from them. Too, he has his duties. Affairs of state do not holiday just because those who must attend to them have been ordered to do the same, and as much as he is not looking forward to addressing the work that has undoubtedly piled up in his absence, he still would not trade his station for any prize that the tongues of elves and men could name.

No, not even she. The one that he has named alone.

 _Galadriel_.

Even to this day, that name still fills the whole of his senses; its syllables still fall softly from tip of his tongue, like rose petals, and wind their gentle way inside his hearing before cascading down through his innermost being, a cataract of light and life and laughter and love that inevitably finds its rest deep inside his heart.

 _Galadriel_.

She has accepted his naming graciously, as she has accepted all the gifts bequeathed to her by this, her adoptive kingdom. The love of its king, the blessing of its queen, the adoration of its court. And the solid, steadfast friendship of its lowest prince, the lesser son of the lesser son of the only brother of the mighty Elu Thingol to never rule a kingdom of his own. A solid, steadfast friendship that has slowly grown into a kind of shy devotion, and thenceforth blossomed into love.

A love that, alas, simply is not meant to be.

The seeds that were sown had been doomed from the first, and now the errant sapling shall never come to flower; shall never once bear fruit. For though she has long resided inside his heart, that place remains the one part of himself that he is not free to give away. Is not, and never has been, for the heart of Celeborn, son of Galadhon, belongs to Doriath; first, last, and evermore.

And the King of Doriath has decreed that no servant of the House of Elwë shall consort with a scion of the House of Finwë. Though _Galadriel_ she may be to him, her tolerance of such an overbold, intimate gesture is simply an act of grace he knows he does not deserve, for he can no more stop serving Doriath than she can stop being named _Alatáriel_ on both sides of the sea.

She waits for him, he knows. News from Tol Galen is always welcome, and somehow she had known that this trip would be important before he’d even set one foot upon the trail. A simple diplomatic errand, his King had said; an excuse to leave his robes in favor of his riding greens. A brief escape from the Thousand Caves and a chance to reacquaint himself with starlight. Not exactly a subtle hint, but still a Kingly order.

Yet on the day before he was to leave, his Galadriel did come to him, bearing private messages for the House of Beren and a personal _fare thee well_ for the messenger tasked with delivering them; and couched inside the wishes for a speedy journey and the admonishments to keep a safe one, an oblique warning that the words he would exchange in Tol Galen on behalf of Menegroth would pale in comparison to the words he would exchange at Beren’s table on behalf of the House of Galadhon.

Not that she was anywhere near so direct, of course. For as plain-speaking as she could be at court, she still so often managed to be frustratingly vague outside of it. A wellspring of dichotomy was his Galadriel; a study in equal opposites. And also she did nothing to let on exactly _how_ she knew, for though she is possessed of the Sight, it is a wanton and capricious gift that descends upon her sparingly; but even if it is far more likely that her knowledge came to her instead through correspondences with Lúthien, neither Lady is known for giving up their secrets easily, if in fact at all.

And so he’d ridden out to Tol Galen in the company of one aide, six bodyguards, and the lingering shade of foreboding that Galadriel's words had stirred up inside his heart. A shade that was not banished by the light of revelation once the true purpose of his errand became known, for in truth his summons did not come from Lúthien at all, and nor was just a simple emissary of Elu Thingol all that was needed out of Menegroth.

Rather he had been sent to Tol Galen at the request of Dior, the Eluchíl, who had asked for him by name: Celeborn, son of Galadhon, but also brother of Galathil and, by the twined fortunes of war and grief, the sole patriarch to whom any suitor to his niece must make petition. The High Prince, _his_ High Prince, was seeking Nimloth’s hand.

And he did not yet know if he would grant it.

Though it was ultimately the King who held the final word over marriages sought inside his realm, Celeborn knew that his decision would not be overruled should he refuse the match. Though he came into his station by right of succession, his seat at Thingol’s right arm had not been bought by blood alone, and likewise it was not arrogance that proclaimed he of all advisers was trusted most of all. But even if his King allowed him the final say in this, that say still went no father than the fate of Nimloth, and Thingol would doubtless wish to know why his grandson had been denied his heart’s first choice.

And _because your brother’s grandson has been denied his own_ would not make for an acceptable answer, not even in jest.

And not that it was even true, at least as far as excuses went, but the words were coiled tight around his spleen and he could not deny how very much he wished to get them out. Long has the King known of his feelings for Alatáriel and yet the law still stands unchanged. But any bitterness he owns -- and he does own some, he’ll not deny it -- is far outweighed by that strange shadow in his mind, the one that whispers of a vague and faceless doom. The one that whispers that his niece’s life will know great joy, should she twine it with the Eluchíl, but that those joys shall not stand long before being snuffed out into unending sorrow.

And Nimloth, aged just six and fifty, has already known enough of sorrow to last a thousand lifetimes.

Celeborn knows that his return to Menegroth is anticipated. Indeed, it will be all the greater looked for after such a gratuitous delay. He knows that the entire kingdom is anxious to hear his verdict, because even if Dior and Nimloth had been discreet (which of course they had been, truly; it’s part of the reason why Dior’s petition had so blindsided him, as that discretion had left him with no inklings that their feelings for each other had ever evolved beyond those of distant friendship) he does not for a moment doubt that the court will have pieced together exactly why Dior had asked to meet with him specifically -- and why the King agreed forthwith and without any of the usual debate. There is no gossip like courtly gossip, and by now the entire Kingdom will want to know his mind.

Which means that he should probably have something in mind to tell them, and preferably before his party reaches the advanced guard.

Alas, the problem is (and always was) not that he’s uncertain. No, rather it’s that he’s _reluctant_ , because for all that he would not see Nimloth hurt for all the world, he cannot deny that life itself tends to deal the heaviest blows, and if indeed her days are doomed to end in tragedy should he consent to let her share them with Dior Aranel, then she -- then _anyone_ \-- might just as well be better off stealing back whatever happiness they can in whatever time is left to them. Indeed, if he truly does not wish to cause her pain, then he knows that he will have to let her go.

He just _also_ knows, down to the very depths of his soul, exactly how painful it will be for him to do so. But for Nimloth’s sake, he will endure.

And in a way, he envies Dior, and not just for the imminent blessing on his heart’s wish, because even should he have withheld that blessing and denied Dior’s request, there would still be no retracting of such a public declaration. Nimloth, for good or ill, would always know how Dior felt for her, would always know that he had once kept her name above all others, and even if his love should wither and die for want of tending, still that knowledge would remain with her for evermore. Better that, he thinks, than the alternative.

Better that, he knows, than giving a Noldorin princess a Sindarin name, and proclaiming to the world you love her only in your dreams.

 _fin_ \- 


End file.
